Willow Rosenberg, Knight of the Blackened Denarius
by Kieranfoy
Summary: When Willow Rosenberg takes her first step on the Dark Path, the Denarians confront her with the Ye Olde Joine or Die speech.
1. One Down

**Willow Rosenberg: Knight of the Blackened Denarius.**

A Dresden Files/ Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover.

((()))

The night was dark.

It wasn't stormy, and there was no Igor around to lend a hand; but, Willow mused, you couldn't have everything.

The moon was certainly picturesque. The waning crescent looked like a sickle. Her mind briefly entertained charming metaphors involving the ancient druids and their sacrifices.

The waning moon. Symbol of the Crone. The vengeful aspect of the Goddess. Willow wondered if Tara would have appreciated the symbolism. Probably not; she was such a kind person.

Willow had pretty much given up on kindness by now. All that mattered to her, all that held her to her old morals and values, all that made her the cheerful crayon-breaker that she had been had died with Tara. All that was left was the darkness that had simmered beneath the surface, the killer beneath the geek.

Glancing at Warren, who was securely tied with conjured ropes, she wondered what her vampiric alternate would have done, had she been in her place. She wished, now, that they hadn't returned her to her universe. She had been a bit trashy, and really needed to get a grip on her libido, but she would have made great company.

Hmm. Vamp Willow probably would have done naughty things with whips, tortured him a little (_real_ torture, not just the kinky kind) and then drained him.

Vamp Willow wasn't here, though; and Vamp Willow wasn't the one who had suffered.

This Willow was.

Willow grinned evilly, her dead gazed fixed firmly on the eyes of the wretch who had taken _her _Tara away. She held up the very bullet that had killed her with for his inspection. It seemed to glint evilly in the wan light that shone down from the crescent moon. She rotated the bullet, showing off every bit of it. Willow wanted Warren to suffer. She wanted him to feel what Tara felt, what Will herself was feeling now, all of it. And more.

"Do you see this?" she asked. "Do you know what this is?"

Warren cringed, blubbering wordlessly. "Aw," Willow cooed mockingly. "Look. The little boy's afraid. You don't have to be afraid, little boy. All I'm going to do is torture you to death." She considered that for a moment, and then acknowledged, "Well, maybe you do have something to be afraid of. Ah, well, no use crying over spilt blood. At least, not over yours."

Her faux-cheerful expression vanished, replaced by a vicious snarl. "I'm going to drive this bullet right into your guts, you simpering idiot," she informed him. "Then I think I'll skin you alive, and eat your liver." Her lips parted in what would have been a smile, had there been anything remotely resembling humor (or sanity, for that matter) to it. "What do you think?"

"N-no… please, no!" Warren squealed.

"Oh, shut it," she snapped, making a complex gesture with one finger. Dark thread shot out of her fingers, sewing Warren's lips shut. "Right. Pain time now." Another thought, another gesture, and the bullet left her hand, coming to rest on just in front of Warrens stomach. He squealed through his gag makeshift gag, trying to free himself from the ropes that held him suspended in the air. Willow reached out, pulled his shirt out of the way, and made the bullet slowly drive itself into his belly button.

She idly admired the way the spurting blood glittered and gleamed in the moonlight. She considered making a poem about it for a moment, but dismissed the idea. She simply couldn't decide whether it would be free verse or iambic pentameter.

Ah, the dilemmas of the poet. Poor Shakespeare. She understood now why he had such a reputation for oddness.

"Right," she said after a few moments of artistic ennui, "bored now." She waved her hand idly along his length, and stripped his skin off. "Hmm, you look like a picture from Grey's Anatomy," she said. "How fun." She briefly considered taking a photo and sending it in to the publishers for publication in the next edition, but decided it would be too much effort. Besides, she didn't want to share Warrens suffering with the world. It was all hers.

Warren gazed at her, his eyes pleading.

She sighed, snapped her fingers for effect, and watched as he burst into flames. Burning, as he surely would in the next world.

"I know," she told his ashes. "Haiku! Let's see… _Watch happily the/ blood gleam upon the ground/ ah, ain't it shiny? _Yeah, that's nice. Bye bye, Warren."

She gathered her magic about her, preparing to return home for a time. She rather fancied a snack before she killed the others. "One down," she muttered as she drew magic from the earth, from the sky, and from the lingering aura of death that came from Warren's corpse. Her delicate concentration, so necessary for such a complex spell, was rather disrupted by the feeling of a heavy stick crashing against the back of her head.

Her last thought, before everything dissolved into agony and darkness, was, _I guess I'm going to miss out on that snack._

_((()))_

In all those stories that Willow had read, whenever a character was waking up from a coma or something, it felt like they were in a dark well, and someone was pulling them to the surface. The water was often pleasant, and the characters resented being pulled out into consciousness. The metaphor had always reminded Willow of that creepy Japanese movie with the girl who killed people who watched the videotape. She had hated that movie; the girl was just so eerie.

This, though, didn't feel like that at all. It actually felt like waking up, except she didn't normally wake up feeling like someone had hit her on the head with a baseball bet. Which, now that she thought about it, was pretty much what happened.

Well, there had been those few experiments with underage drinking, but at least her mouth didn't feel like anything had died in it.

Best to think positive.

She took stock of her situation as best she could without opening her eyes. She was lying on a bed, her head lying on some of the most comfortable pillows she had felt in a while. Silk covers, with that fancy space-age stuffing that contoured to your head. The sheets over her ware also silk, although she thought that there must be a comforter over them, as she felt more weight than simple silk could explain. A good thing it was, too, as her face felt a little cool.

It smelled damp and musty, almost like a cave. There was a steady, almost soothing trickling noise coming from somewhere over to her left. It sounded like a little creek.

"Ah," a warm, male voice said quietly, seemingly pitched so as not to exacerbate her throbbing head. "You are awake. How lovely."

Willow raised her head and opened her eyes. No use pretending.

The first thing that hit was the thought, _Hey, I was right. Cave! _She was, indeed, in a cave. The bed she was lying in (with black silk sheets and a heavy black comforter; nice to see her deductive skills weren't hampered by a headache like a mini-apocalypse taking place between her ears) was smack-dab in the middle of a cave. The rock was damp, and there was a small creek a few feet away.

Next, she focused on the source of the voice. For some reason, she thought that it sounded like Giles'. Quite polite. Very cultured. Infinitely British. But this voice had a predatory aspect to it; steel blade clothed in velvet. The sight of the man confirmed it. Black hair, a touch of grey at the temple. Elegantly casual silk shirt, nondescript but tasteful slacks. Roman nose, piercing eyes. Almost like Giles, but older. And there was something about the eyes. Something ancient.

The last thing she noticed was the small, antique table sitting next to the bed. She didn't pay much attention to the table itself, being more interested in what was on it. A cup, a pot of tea (Earl Grey by the smell), and a plate of-

"Ants on a Log?*" she squeaked, regretting it when her head exploding. She collapsed to the pillow. _Focus,_ she told herself. _Ground and center. Heal the headache. _It should have occurred to her earlier, but, hey, she was in agony. After her head felt better, she glanced up at the man. He looked mildly concerned, and was in fact half-way out of his seat before he saw that Willow had recovered.

She continued angrily, "You hit me on the head with a baseball bat-"

"Blackjack," the man corrected mildly.

"Heavy thing," she snapped, glaring, "kidnap me, take me away from my revenge, and then put me in this luxurious bed and feed me my favorite snack? What the hell is wrong with you?" A thought occurred to her. "How did you know I liked Ants on a Log and Earl Grey, anyway? No, scratch that, I don't care! Who the hell are you?"

The man smiled condescendingly. "First questions first, shall we? Te only thing wrong with me, at the moment, is that I am cursed with incompetent minions. They were instructed to bring you here, but I apparently should have specified that I be willingly. My sincerest apologies." He smiled charmingly. "As for the snack, I am rather skilled at mind-magics. I attempted to scan your surface thoughts to determine the cause of your unique appearance." He held up a hand to quiet her. "I was concerned that it might be some sort of disease or affliction. I was also attempting to sooth dome of your pain. I was only able to gain two pieces of information from you before you rather violently threw me out. The first was that you had suffered some tragedy recently, the details of which were unclear, and frankly none of my concern. The second was a great craving for that snack."

He shrugged causally. "As for the luxuries, it was the least I could do to make up for my mistakes. I'm only regretful that the surroundings are somewhat less than congenial. Unfortunately, I do have my enemies, and this is a rather safe location."

He tilted his head to the side, as if trying to recall if there were any other questions.

"As for my name," he said quietly, "you may call me Nicodemus."

((()))

*Celery, with the depression along the length filled with peanut butter, and studded with either raisins or chocolate chips. Willow proffered chocolate, although it was definitely a guilty pleasure. Ants on a Log is the perfect contrast between wholesome celery, sweet chocolate, and earthy peanut butter.


	2. Temptation

Chapter 2:

Temptation.

((()))

Willow nodded slowly. "Okay," she said. "Cool name. Like that Pharisee who was in cahoots with Jesus. I read his gospel," she explained, noting Nicodemus' arched brow. "I read a lot of things."

"I am impressed," he murmured. "Most children-" He broke off at the sight of her murderous glare. This was quite an intimidating stare due to the whole Dark Lord of the Sith look Willow was sporting these days, although it didn't quite ruffle Nicodemus. "Forgive me; most _young adults_ in these sadly uneducated days are little more than ignorant heathens. I am, in fact, that same Pharisee, although my role was somewhat distorted in the gospel."

Willow laughed. "Funny," she replied around a mouthful of celery. "You don't strike me as a vampire."

"Hardly that," he replied. "I am a Knight of the Blackened Denarius."

"Never heard of them," she replied tartly. "Sounds like something Aleister Crowley would have come up with." Nicodemus shot her an aggrieved look. "I'm just saying, it's a pretty pretentious name. Let me guess. You're an ancient fraternal order dedicated to advancing the cause of darkness and chaos in the world. You've seen that I have 'potential,' and want to induct me into this order, giving me great power and knowledge and a great benefits package in exchange for my soul and free will. Oh, and you're all immortal. Does that about cover it?"

"Really, my dear," he sighed. "Tell me, are you by any chance related to a man named Harry Dresden?"

"Nope. Never heard of him."

"Ah, well. Just a thought. I daresay you learned your manners from the same book, though. You summation, while excessively flippant, is essentially correct. Would you be interested in a more detailed explanation?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, Nicky. I've got places to see, people to torture to death, you know how it goes."

"Indeed I do," he replied. "However, I know from personal experience that they are unlikely to kill themselves in order to evade your wrath, and that is the only way they could avoid the attention of one so powerful as yourself. In short, they are not going anywhere. And you must think of what you will do with your life after you exact your vengeance."

She snorted. "I _die_," she replied, as if the answer was blindingly obvious. "Preferably taking as much of the world as possible with me."

"Nearsighted," he countered swiftly. "Power is a far headier thing than mere wanton destruction. Command over the life and death of a world can only be enjoyed once if you do, in fact, obliterate it; but that pleasure can be extended indefinitely if you hold the Earth in the palm of your hand."

"And you would have some way to do that?" she asked cynically.

"Let me tell you a story, Ms. Rosenberg," Nicodemus replied cryptically. "A story that started two millennia ago."

"Jesus," Willow muttered, and Nicodemus wasn't sure whether that was an identification or an exclamation. He chose to treat it as the latter.

"Precisely. A small-time preacher from Nazareth was crucified by the Romans atop the same hill as the murderers and rapists and petty thieves. A minor event in the secular world, but it moved mountains Above and Below. In that moment, the moment the Son returned to the Source, the shock to the fabric of reality was so great that a rift opened."

"Like a Hellmouth," she suggested. "My High School was built on top of one."

"What an interesting education that must have made. But, not, not quite. The rift did indeed reach into the depths of hell, but it was not a few score of petty imps or damnedsouls in dramatic costume that escaped, but thirty Fallen Angels. These Fallen, true to the commands of their Lord, found themselves bound into thirty artifacts of hellish orientation. Thirty symbols of betrayal."

"Thirty pieces of silver," Willow murmured.

"Precisely. The thirty worn silver Denarii that had been paid to Judas Iscariot became the vessels of some of the most powerful Fallen in hell. When a mortal so much as touches one of the coins, they are offered limitless power. The wisdom of a being that has existed literally before time itself came into being." His expression grew cunning. "Companionship that need not end inevitably in death, as all mortal friendship must, but can endure the ages."

"Immortality?"

"Indeed. I stood on the hill of Golgotha, when Iesu Nazarenthus was placed upon that cross. I attended the trial of Elizabeth Bathory. I was at Edward the Second's funeral. I saw the War of the Roses. I had my portrait painted by Leonardo DaVinci, and attended a live performance of the music of Johan Sebastian Bach."

"Wow. How much of that was bullshit, by the way?" she asked casually.

"None of it, actually, dear girl," Nicodemus replied urbanely. "I didn't need to lie. Every word was the truth."

"Huh," she murmured. Oh, the thoughts that danced behind those blood-red eyes. Power. Revenge. The world within her clenched fist. Unleashing her wrath upon all those who stood against her.

Unlimited power.

Unlimited Ants on a Log.

Oh, yeah.

But, for some reason, she really didn't like Nicodemus. There was something about his uber-English attitude that grated on her nerves.

Just as she was about to tell him to go to hell (and then send him there herself) he reached into a pocket, and pulled out a small black box. He led it out to her, expression expectant.

"For me?" Willow asked dryly, placing her hands over her heart in a mock swooning gesture. "But it's so sudden. We've only known each other for ten minutes!"

"Yes," he sighed, "this is definably the right coin for you. Lasciel will be well suited to you, and you to it."

Hah. Pushy bastard, wasn't he? Although, the promise of power was just too tempting to turn down. Hmmm. _Ah, I know. Combine the two plans, get the best of both worlds. Kill Nicky-boy, and take the coin. _

"No," she said coldly. "For some reason, there's something about you that just pisses me off."

"Are you sure?" he asked mildly, seeming disappointed.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Fuck you, Nick."

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," he informed the universe n general, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"Yeah? Tough," she replied, one hand snaking out and snatching the box from his hand. She put it in a pocket, and then pointed the hand at Nicodemus. "Hate to say it, Nicky, but I'm going to have to kill you. No one knocks me out like that. No one, even demon-possessed millennia-old assholes like you."

"Charming," he droned. "And how do you expect to accomplish this, hmmm?"

"Well, I was thinking something like this," she said lazily, allowing the dark magic boiling within her to stream from her finger tips in the form of purple lightning interwoven with black smoke. It seemed to roar hungrily, leaping out from her hand to strike at this fool who had dared to challenge, her. It would rend the very flesh from his bones, and tear his withered little soul from his singed corpse.

The eldritch blast hit the Denarian with the force of a Mack truck. He was thrown backwards, and struck the far wall of the cave hard, his chest sparking.

Willow sighed. "Pitiful. You'd think someone that old would go down a bit harder." She stood up, located the exit (a small tunnel carved into the rock), and started to leave.

"Down," a voice said quietly. "But not out,"

"Ah, shit," she muttered. Turning, she saw Nicodemus, not a scratch on him, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. "Impressive," he acknowledged grudgingly. "Most impressive."

"You'll find I'm full of surprises, Darth Crumpets," she replied cockily.

"Clearly. You pack quite the metaphorical punch. Shall we see how you are on the defensive?" He thrust his hands in her directions, snarling, "_Ignis Inferis!"_ Searing red and yellow fire, smelling strongly of sulfur, spewed from his hands like a flamethrower.

Willow crossed her wrists in front of her face, aligning her defensive energies into a shield. The shield was text-book perfect. It was angled at precisely the right angle to deflect the fire, rather than absorb it. Merlin himself would have been proud.

It was the only thing that saved her life.

The fire burned on and on, searing and billowing and powerful as hell. It seemed to writhe against the shield, always pressing against it. Willow threw all her energies, all her concentration, into holding the shield. _Have to hold it,_ she told herself. _Just a little longer._

On the edge of her consciousness, she heard a voice, redolent with nauseating holiness and sounding like a trumpet burst, call out defiantly, "Nicodemus! Murderer! Stand forth and face justice!" The flamestrike broke off as the lord of the Denarians turned to face this new attacker. Willow held her shield nonetheless, and began edging towards the exit. Never turn down a convenient _deus ex machine_, that was her motto.

There were two people confronting Nicodemus. One was a man clad in black assault armor, which was incongruously topped with a white cloak with a scarlet cross embroidered over the heart. He had a Kalashnikov hanging over one shoulder, and saber in his right hand. The saber was burning with holy silver flames, and it was pointed at Nicky-baby's heart.

Willow found herself liking the man in spite of herself.

The other was a rugged looking man in a black leather duster, tattered slacks, and a Jeep tee-shirt. He was holding a tall wooden staff whose runes were burning with the same silver flame that burned on the other's sword. He was hanging back; less out of cowardice, Willow thought, than out of a desire to not steal the sword-wielders thunder.

"Get outta here, girl," the wizard (what else could he be?) snapped at Willow. "We'll keep him busy!"

The sword-wielder muttered something to the man. All Willow could catch was, "Not an innocent… sense Black Magic… perhaps we could…"

"No, Sanya," his companion said. "She's just a girl. Get out," he added, looking at her.

"Nicodemus," Sanya asked Nicky, "are you prepared to face justice?"

"Are you prepared to be force-fed your entrails?" he asked politely. When Sanya struck out with the blade, and the wizard followed up with a blast of fire, he sighed, "I'll take that as a no."

Willow didn't bother to stick around for the sequel. She hightailed it out of there like her back end was on fire.

((()))

Dawn.

There are lots of good things to be said about dawn. If you read them, you'll notice how many of them are about rebirth and renewal and phoenixes and furry woodland creatures. You'll also notice how few of them were written by Dark Mages.

That's because Dark Mages tend not to be morning people.

Willow yawned loudly as she walked through the forest. It would probably be a bad idea to go home. Little things like murder tended to upset the authorities, and given that one of her friends was a supernatural authority… well, best to get out of town.

There were, however, a few loose ends she needed to tie up first.

Deep within the depths of her mind, she felt something awake, as if from a long nap.

Things were looking up.


	3. Vengeance is Mine

Chapter Thee.  
Vengeance is Mine, Sayeth the Denarian.

(Note: I warped the actual events of the episodes Two to Go and Villains to suit my fiendish purposes. Deal. Also, I don't own any of the quotes from the series I use here, either. I repeat: I own nothink!

"You saw her – she's a Sith Lord ass-kicking demon-chick! And we've got maybe seconds before Darth Rosenberg grinds everybody into Jawa-burgers, and not one of you bunch has the midiclorians to stop her."

Xander sighed. "Man, you so need to get laid. That kind of geekiness is a symptom of way too much time on your hands."

"Take it from him," Anya agreed. "He knows. The boy has _years _of geek experience to base an opinion on."

"Thanks for the comfort, Anya. And as for you two boneless chickens- well, spineless, anyway- if you don't shut up and start cooperating, little miss Evil Willow is going to make you skinless, too!"

"Will… will she eat us?" Andrew asked.

"All of us," Anya agreed, smiling ghoulishly.

"Again with the comfort," Xander mutter.

From her place behind them, hidden under an invisibility spell, Willow made a mental note of that. -_Not bad, eh? Liver!-_

_-As an idea, it could use some work, my host,- _Lasciel murmured. -_You have no idea where those livers have been.-_

_-Yes,-_ Willow countered, -_I do. They've been inside them.-_

_-A point. Shall we dance?-_

_-Oh, let the plot thicken a bit. Be a shame if I had to burn down the Magic Box. I've grown attached to it. See if they leave.-_

_-I doubt,- _Lasciel replied, -_that they are so foolish as to think that a store would offer them protection against your powers.-_

_-Hoo, boy, but you're wrong. They are pretty dense. Remember, I spent years being little miss geeky technopagan for them.-_

"Look, we need to get them out of Sunneydale," Buffy said. "Leaving them here is just dangling bait under Willow's nose. We need to get them to… somewhere. I don't know. Sacramento, or LA. Somewhere we can get the lost in."

"Oh, Buffy," Willow sighed loudly, as she kicked open the store's door. "Don't you get it? You can't save them. Tara's death is their fault; they're going to suffer. A lot."

"I can't let you do that," Buffy said grimly.

"Yawn. More clichéd good-guy monologue coming up, I suppose. Bored now." She noted Buffy's wince with glee. "Think you're tough enough to take me on, Buffy?"

"Well, I do work out."

"Yeah, you're real buff, Buff. See, I made a joke. Laugh!"

Andrew gave an obedient chuckle. Willow glared at him.

"Shut it. If I want an opinion from you, I'll read it in your guts. Well, Buff? Oh, you want me to fight fair, don't you? Mano e mano, no magic need apply? Sorry, I'm not into fair. Being bullied for being a geek all your life does that." She shot lightning at Buffy's swollen head.

"Ow," Buffy complained from the smoking, sparking heap that she had wound up in. The contents of several shelves were piled on top of her.

The rest of the Scooby team scattered. The two scumbags tried to follow them, but Willow dragged them back with magic.

"Leaving already, boys?" she cooed evil. "But you'll miss the fun! Lasciel's given me some great ideas, you see. I was just going to smack you until you eyeballs switched sockets, but she has some good suggestions"

She fired another barrage of lightning at Buffy. "Just stay out of this, Buff, and I'll try not to kill you. I just want these little brats dead."

Buffy did not respond. Willow hoped she wasn't dead.

"Now, boys," she purred cruelly. "Have either of you ever left a banana in the freezer?"

Andrew slowly raised one hand. It shook worse than a pixie dust sniffing demon who'd gone too long without a line. "It gets… brown… and solid," he said, his voice an almost inaudible squeak.

"Good. Then you know what you'll look like when I finally let you die," she said with a terrifying smile pasted on her face. She held up one hand. A cold, blue-white energy gathered there, and the room's temperature dropped a few degrees.

"Time to die," she said. "And guess what? There really is no one to stop me now."

-_Clichéd, my host,- _Lasciel murmured.

_-Bite me.-_

"I'd like to test that theory, dear." The voice sounded like Nicodemus' gentle twin.

"Oh, boy. Daddy's home," Willow muttered wearily. "Hello, Giles," she said without turning to face him. "How's it going? Archived any good grimoires today?"

Giles chose to ignore the sarcasm. "I'm here to help you, Willow."

"Thanks," she replied breezily, "but Lasciel and I can kill geeks on our own."

"You can't trust the Fallen, Willow. They're deceivers, tempters. Lasciel is called the Webweaver, the Temptress, the Seducer. She may say she wants to help you, but all she wishes to do is use your power to further the aims of the Prince of Darkness."

Willow laughed, turning to face him. "Did you just fall out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down, Giles? You're a librarian and a Watcher, not a wizard. Go home, read a book, write a letter of complaint."

"I have been entrusted with the power of the Devon Coven, Willow. I am older and wiser than you. You are nothing but a rank armature, and you can't hope to win. Please, Willow," he begged, his voice breaking, "come with me. It needn't end like this."

"Rank amateur, huh?" Willow repeated, annoyed. "Well, buckle up, Jedi Master Limey, 'cause I've turned pro."

"Did you forget?" he murmured. "'There is no shortcut to learning.'"

"Misquoting Euclid?" Willow gasped with fake shock. "A sign of the End Times."

"I prefer to consider it a paraphrase," he replied. "Satharak, na kadum!" he added in a thunderous tone, thrusting his hand at Willow. Scarlet and orange flame leapt from his hand, engulfing her in a cocoon of searing magic.

-Fuck,- she thought, bringing a shield of magical energy up just in time to defend herself. The cocoon wrapped around her shield, burning without consuming it. The effect was rather similar to seeing water stream against a glass plate, really.

Just deadlier.

Way deadlier.

"Bored, yet?" Giles asked mildly.

"Boy, Giles, someone's been looking at some questionable grimoires, huh?"

"Fire with fire," he replied, but looked troubled.

With a blast of Black Magic, Willow shattered his spell. Dispelling her shield, she raised both hands high, conjuring searing Hellfire. "I really don't want to do this, Giles," she snapped. "Just go away!" With that, she threw the Hellfire... right at his face.

With practiced ease, Giles tumbled out of the way, rolling over one shoulder, and coming to his feet right in front of Willow… only to be met with a fist to the jaw.

The second push hit him in the stomach, and a third to the back of his skull sent him down to the depths of unconsciousness. "Night, night," she said brightly. "Now," she added, glaring at the two men who were cowering before, bound by her magic. "You like magic, don't you? How'd you like that?"

They didn't respond, being far too terrified to much more than gibber.

"Ah, well," Willow murmured. She hooked her fingers, pointed her clawed hands at the two, and whispered, "Abracadabra."

((()))

Willow strode out of the Magic Box, the shriveled corpses of the last of Tara's killers left there for all to see. She had nailed their cryogenically preserved bodies to the wall, legs together and arms spread wide.

Lasciel had approved.

_-What now, Lasciel?- _she asked.

_-Whatever you wish, my host. That is what freedom is all about.-_


	4. Of Fallen Angels and Daft Vampires

OF FALLEN ANGELS AND DAFT VAMPIRES.

Warnings: Violence, Lasciel/Willow, maybe Drusilla/Willow. If you're too young to read romance between two women, grow up and read it when you're old enough. If you think it's wrong, then just grow up.

I don't own the song, either. It comes from the book 'The Wind Crystal.'

Willow rather liked the night. It was soothing and peaceful, but somehow energizing at the same time. Everything seemed alive. Especially tonight.

Most people wouldn't have considered a small Maine border-town- and one that was drenched in fog from the nearby river, no less- to be energizing, but the smell of damp earth and growing things was a very potent thing, full of life.

"Now, how did that song go?" Willow muttered to herself, gazing at the diffuse glow that was the moon seen through the all-encompassing fog. "The moon sails in the seas of light, treetops net her silver light, until… something." She shrugged. "Ah, whatever. I'll remember it later."

-It is a nice song, my host- Lasciel agreed. –I remember it. Would you like me to…-

"Nah. No thanks. I'll remember eventually," Willow replied.

Out of the night, an oddly misty voice drifted to the pair's ears. "Little willow tree, sways in the breeze, leaves rustling to themselves. But what are they saying, Miss Edith? Miss Edith doesn't know."

"Oh, not you again!" Willow muttered.

-A friend, my host?-

-You're the one in my head. Shouldn't you know that?-

-It would be rude to peek-

-Enemy. Crazy vampire-

"What do you want, Drusilla?" Willow asked impatiently. "Because I've never exactly had a problem with dusting vamps, and I've gotten even less of a problem recently."

"We saw, Miss Edith and I," Drusilla replied, stepping into the wan light of the streetlamps. "It was like the Crucifixion."

"As if you saw it," Willow scoffed. "If every vamp who claimed to be there had been, it would have been like Woodstock."

-Save the absence of hippies, my host- Lasciel murmured dryly.

-That's a good thing. You were there?-

-No. I came a into this world a few moments later-

"We read the Bible. It's the Good Book. You have to read it. And we ate a priest, once. We know what it was like."

"Bit hypocritical, that. The Good Book would probably singe your hands if you touched it."

-Indeed it would, my host. Grey Court Vampires are not quite as vulnerable to tokens of faith as Black Court, but it does not require True Faith behind it-

-Is that a fancy way of saying that they'll run from a cross, even if it's in the hands of an Atheist?-

-Even if there is no person behind the cross- Lasciel agreed.

-Yeah, I remember that. Once, Spike trapped Angel in a room full of crosses-

-Inventive-

"Just because the Good Lord does not believe in Miss Edith and I does not mean we do not believe in Him. He may believe as He wills, and we shall believe as we will. Just because the morning star took us as his own, does not mean we always walk in shadow."

"Erm, you do, actually," Willow pointed out, somewhat surprised that she could understand what the hell the escapee from a psycho-ward was talking about.

"And yet," Drusilla replied, "it moves."

"Galileo you aren't, deary," Willow snarked.

"He was ungodly," Drusilla snapped. "I am not."

"Heard you wanted to be a nun," Willow drawled, enjoying making fun of Drusilla. If it got boring, she'd probably just dust her.

"We heard the whispers, heard the stars sing us to sleep, and we were frightened. We went away, away from our Angelus, but he followed."

"Tough cookies," Willow said lazily. "What the hell do you want, anyway?"

"We heard about the dead men. We heard, and we were lonely. Sire will not have us, and fledgling is dead… or something else, we heard whispers. Will you tell us about our Spike, about our fledgling?"

"I think I'll let you hang."

"Oh, well," Drusilla murmured. "We were just wondering."

"Cold."

"We are in New England."

"Point," Willow agreed. She was actually starting to like this vampire.

-An ally, perhaps, my host?-

-Ah, why not?-

"How'd you like to be on the winning side for a change, Drusilla?" Willow asked.

"Would we be able to keep our pet, Spike?" she asked dreamily. "Keep him and cuddle him and flay him? Keep his face in a jar by the door, and his dust in an urn?*"

"Have at it," Willow replied.

"Oh, but we will," she replied quietly. "Pinch him, burn him, turn him about. Till candle and starlight and moonshine go out!"

-What the hell is she on?- Willow demanded silently.

-I believe she is mangling Shakespeare, my host- Lasciel replied, her tone rich with amusement. –While I would normally consider that a sin worthy of immediate elimination, I believe we can be merciful, just this once-

"A hotel room would be pleasant," Drusilla observed airily. "Miss Edith misses a nice bed in the day, she does."

(O)

*Remember, she's crazy. She thinks he's dead, but she still wants him alive, and dead, preserved, and dust. Try to fit your head around it and you'll wind up as daft as her.

Probably not as cute, though. :)


End file.
